


Holding His Breath Half to Death

by Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, GRADENCE - Freeform, Haunting, Historically Accurate Mental Institutions, Injury Recovery, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Making Love, Mental Instability, Slow-to-medium burn, We’ll call it medium-rare burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-11 12:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15315261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon/pseuds/Cosmo_is_Beink_Melon
Summary: Graves remembers nothing.Credence is nothing.And yet somehow, they still find one another.





	1. White-Blank Void

They call him ‘Mr. Credence.’  
  
It is not his name.  
  
He’s certain of nothing, except that.  
  
Not where he is. Not how he came to be here. Not who these people are.

Life is a fever dream, a delusion. He blinks and it changes.  
  
He’s cold and alone and in the dark. Burning with pain. Constant, unyielding pain.  
  
No, he’s in a hospital and the pain is less, and the confusion greater.  
  
No, he’s somewhere else entirely.  
  
Most troubling, he doesn’t know who he is. There’s a white-blank void where his identity should be.  
  
Identity is fundamental. There’s no going quietly, no gracefully coping with its absence. The loss of self is so real and raw that it splinters his mind.  
  
He loses time. Hours, days, to a place of non-being.  
  
He sleeps.  
  
He doesn’t.  
  
People come to him.  
  
They don’t.  
  
He hears words, they mean nothing.  
  
Then, sometimes, they mean everything.  
  
_Mr. Credence, it’s time for your medication..._  
  
His name is not Credence, it is a fevered incantation he murmurs in the darkness. It is the only word he has spoken to any one of them.  
  
_They_ assumed it was his name.  
  
‘Credence’ never belonged to him, however he may wish it so.  
  
But the name comforts him. Or it doesn’t. It sets his nerve-endings on fire, pounds brutally against the blank places in his mind.  
  
He’s sickened by it. He needs it.  
  
But it is _not_ his.  
  
The days—yes they are becoming days now—start to even out. They are no longer minutes or years long, simply the slow-pass of twenty-four uniform hours. He gets out of bed. He doesn’t hurt, except in the ways that he does.  
  
Now, after all this time, he knows where he is. He knows who these people are. He still doesn’t know who _he_ is—but he knows he’s not Credence.  
  
He breaks his relative silence, and tells them firmly not to use that name. Not Credence. They may call him anything they wish. Any name in the world. So long as it’s not that one.  
  
That name is sacred.  
  
Pure.  
  
Right.  
  
Good.  
  
And not meant for him.  
  
He doesn’t know how he knows this.  
  
So, they begin to call him 'Mr. Benjamin' instead—the orderlies, the doctor—and he’s fine with that.  
  
He doesn’t know if it suits him.  
  
He doesn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My passion in life is the history of psychiatric medicine, with a special love of asylums and mental institutions. So prepare yourself for a story chock-a-block with ridiculously well-researched 1920s state institution biz. You’ve been warned :3
> 
> (Feedback makes the author blush and swoon! Please consider telling me what you think.)


	2. The Burden of Courtesy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you _so much_ for your kind reception of my Gradence story. It's my first work in the fandom, and your encouragement means the world to me.  
>  (T^T) <3

He stops and listens to the syncopated, rhythmic _chuk_ s surrounding him; the cacophony of several dozen knives striking several dozen chopping boards. He focuses on one board—that of a placid-faced bald man catty-corner to him, and listens. The sound lulls Benjamin into a trance.

He returns to his own cutting, awkward and unpracticed, trying to match his rhythm to that of Baldy.

Onions, carrots, potatoes. Massacred vegetables for the pot.

Whatever— _whoever_ —he was in his life before this place, he surely didn’t spend much time in the kitchen.

There’s a faster way to do this.

He doesn’t know what it might be, but he’s certain it exists.

“You’re doing well, Mr. Benjamin,” Cook says as he stops to assess Benjamin’s work.

Benjamin glances down at the uneven chunks he’s produced. Cook is kind, but not very truthful. He is not doing well at all.

He frowns at the mess on his chopping board, uneven pieces, little bits he sent flying.

Realizing Cook is still there, waiting patiently, he grunts, “Thanks.”

Cook nods, moving on.

Politeness.

Superintendent Reynolds is fond of quoting Emerson. ‘Life is short,’ he often chides, ‘but there is always time enough for courtesy.’

Benjamin doesn’t necessarily agree, but politeness seems to be expected.

He resumes his awkward efforts. There’s a faster way to chop these vegetables. A more precise way.

He can feel the distant, floating impression of a memory: perfectly uniform chopped carrots spilling into a pot at full boil. But he can’t remember holding the knife, and his work now is far from uniform.

It frustrates him, a smoldering lump of dissatisfaction in his gut. He’s impatient.

Also, his hip is in agony from standing this way too long. He shifts his weight more to his good leg, but the pain only eases slightly.

Benjamin feels like he’s older than the moon. He _might_ be. Dr. Akrew estimates Benjamin to be in his early forties.

What is age anyway?

After another hour of work, Benjamin turns, leaning back against the counter, trying to rest his aching hip, when he sees Square Jon, and the stool near him.

Oh, to be able to sit down.

Square Jon is another patient, a thickly built, simple man. He’d spent most of his life as a thug, but they put him in this place after he survived a gunshot wound to the head. It made him soft.

Benjamin doesn’t ask anyone about themselves.

He doesn’t gossip or seek out stories. Other patients, orderlies, hell, even Dr. Akrew himself, they all just _tell_ him things. He’s learned quite a lot he would rather not know about people he doesn’t care about.

The orderlies treat Square Jon like one of their own, giving him assignments such as the one he has now, watching the kitchen.

He breaks up any fights that might occur before there are serious injuries. And in spite of his newly gentle nature, the man still inspires enough fear that no one would dare to stand against him.

Benjamin pushes off from the counter, and begins to approach him.

Square Jon sees him coming and seems to sense his intent. The big man puts a possessive hand on the stool, pulling it close. The scraping sound is unbearable. A nail protruding from one of the stool’s ragged legs scratches a shallow furrow in the floor. The man’s knuckles turn white on the seat.

 _Mine_ , his eyes declare. He does not sit down.

Benjamin sighs heavily and returns to his knife and his cutting board.

_Crazy asshole._

He resumes chopping, but he’s sore and angry and rattled. Instead of putting the blade down point first and using the rocking slice he was taught, he hacks at the potato in annoyance. The first piece falls away, little more than a sliver, and then on the second strike, he misjudges the placement of the knife and it sticks fast, flush against the handle. He grunts. He pulls the knife loose. He tries again, missing the original mark and hews off a large awkward chunk.

He hates this.

He hates chopping vegetables.

There’s an _easier_ way to do this.

And his fucking hip hurts.

All of a sudden he hears the stool on the grimy tile and he looks just in time to grab it before it hits his leg.

He looks back at Square Jon and nods his thanks. The man’s eyes are wide, his face slightly pale, his brow sweaty.

Benjamin looks from the man to his knife and then back again.

Square Jon continues to stare, his mouth hanging open slightly.

Benjamin sighs heavily. “Thank you,” he says.

Courtesy.

Politeness.

****

He dreams without color or sound.

Just images that he won’t remember when he awakes.

A young man—hardly more than a boy—sleeps in a darkened room. The shadow of his body forms a long, thin ridge in the threadbare blanket. He seems to be trying to take up as little space as possible, as if even in his tortured sleep, he seeks to make himself small. He turns in tight, fitful movements, his mouth opening in a soundless moan.

Sweat pours off the young man.

And the dreamer watches from the shadows, patient as graveyard statuary—nameless, even in his own dreams.

He could do _something_. He could help.

He _should_ help.

It’s within his power to ease this agony, he’s sure of it.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets the boy thrash, lets him writhe.

The dreamer holds his breath and he waits as darkness swells to engulf him.

And all he sees is empty black nothing.

And all he feels is guilt.

****

Benjamin sits up soundlessly, his blanket slipping down his torso. He fumbles with the button of his collar, freeing himself to breathe.

The room is quiet and still, save for the soft rustling of sheets, snores, and the squeak of bedsprings as a troubled sleeper tosses and turns.

Benjamin’s heart hammers loudly in his ears and he plants his feet on the cold floor. He reaches out with one toe, seeking his house shoes, and finds them under the edge of the small shared nightstand. The gap between his bed and the next is narrow and when he stands, Benjamin has to side-step his neighbor’s dangling leg.

He stumbles, his hip seizing. The pain is a relic of the day spent on his feet. He grunts and grapples for the doorframe, hanging onto it for balance, and stretches out the aching knot of muscle. The cane that hangs off his bed frame—presented to him by one of the attendants—would serve him well in this instance, but he’ll be damned if he uses it. He’s no cripple.

Fuck.

His mouth is an arid wasteland.

Water. He needs water.

And he needs privacy.

The name is back on his tongue.

He’s gone the whole day without making the sacred invocation, but now it’s there and it swells inside of him. He can feel it like a physical thing, the name that ghosts his lips. The only thing he remembers from his occluded past.

_Credence._

He tries to keep it down as he shambles toward the lavatory.

Benjamin no longer speaks the name freely. He cannot bear for anyone to hear it. The name belongs to him, alone. But it’s always there, rattling behind his teeth. A compulsion.

_Credence. Credence. Credence._

He picks up his pace, pushing onward to the lavatory, his lungs tight from physical effort, his hip burning from the exertion.

Just…

A little…

Farther…

If he could run. But he can’t. So he doesn’t.

By the time he reaches the bathroom, each hurried breath brings with it a small sound.

_Cr… Cr… Cr…_

He bursts into bathroom and the sound of wood striking tile echoes like an automobile backfiring on an empty street. He slams the door shut and leans his weight against it, trying futilely to trap the clamor he’s made.

Even this racket is nowhere near as loud as the voice in his head. Surely it will bring the attendants running.

_Credence!_

He stumbles for the sink, grabbing the edge of the cold porcelain to keep from collapsing on legs that suddenly feel like wobbly gelatin. He turns on the tap, the knob squeaking. Water groans its way up the ancient pipes before coughing and spluttering out.

Moonlight filters in through the windows, muddying the soft yellow and green decor.

“Cre…”

He splashes his face, the water is cold, like autumn giving way to winter. He gasps at the first feel of it. He looks up at his reflection. He _is_ as old as the moon. He blinks.

He slumps to the floor, surrendering to his desire to speak the name.

“Credence,” he whispers, his throat aching with relief.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> A bit of history no one asked for: I've modeled the hospital on the Kirkbride Plan--which posited that what patients with mental health issues really need is routine, understanding, lots of sunlight and nature, and a nurturing environment. These hospitals had staggered wings to let in as much sunlight as possible, plus gymnasia, billiards, bowling, pools, etc. The hospital was self-sufficient, with patients tending farmland owned by the institution, as well as cooking, sewing, building everything from rocking chairs to 'Benjamin's' cane, etc. Sounds pretty cool, right? Unfortunately, these hospitals were built to house 250 patients max and by 1927 when this story takes place, these hospitals were looking at populations of 3,000+ And since the "stabilize and bounce" method of mental healthcare (don't get me started...) didn't really come around until the '50s-'60s with the surge of mental-pharma culture, most people who went into a mental institution never came out, which means populations only grew.
> 
> (Feedback makes the author blush and swoon! Please consider telling me what you think.)


	3. What We Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who is reading!

“They _took_ ’em… they _took_ ’em… they _took_ ’em…” 

Benjamin can hear the Central Ward Melody before he even turns the corner.

It is the creak of rocking chairs, the chattering of sad souls, the click of heels and the whispering shuffle of slipper-shod feet. It is the quiet slide of subtle crazy nearing the precipice and of forced cheer ringing out, too false and too loud.

“They _took_ ’em…”

The repetitive chant comes from a man hunched over in a wooden rocking chair. His words are grating-rough, like a hacking cough that comes from the back of the throat. He massages his kneecaps in tight, slow circles, the muscles in his wiry forearms straining. His grizzled face is twisted hard into a scowl. He glares at the tiled floor.

“They _took_ ’em…”

“Did they now?” Benjamin asks ambivalently as he passes, mop and bucket in hand.

Today he’s assisting Frank, the Janitor, who is not to be confused with Frank, the Roommate, Frank, the Mail Clerk, or Plain Frank, a man who will spirit away and consume any small object he can get his hands on. Buttons, coins, rings, even nails and keys, he’d eat them all. Benjamin hasn’t settled on a name for him yet: Pica Frank sums it up pretty well, or Frank the Mouth. He can’t decide, and so for now he’s just Plain Frank.

“They _took_ ‘em…”

Benjamin almost keeps going— _almost._ But today, whether intrigued by the mystery of the man’s words or due to his lack of interest in scrubbing the lavatory floor, he stops.

“Who took what?” He leans against the wall by the window.

The hallway is lined with rocking chairs, with knots of patients gathered in their rockers to talk or rock or gaze silently out the large windows that overlook the grounds. But this man sits apart, the rocking chairs on either side of him empty like silent sentries.

Despite his curiosity, Benjamin will not go so far as to sit down. The chairs, he has determined, are a trap for the unwary.

“They _took_ ’em…” The man’s gaze remains downwardly fixed, but the rate of his breathing and his voice both rise incrementally with each repetition. “They _TOOK_ ’em! They _TOOK_ ’em!”

He shifts subtly, turning away from Benjamin and hunching further in on himself. His words become an indignant snarl, each sound hard and cruel.

Some of the other patients turn to gawk at the commotion, their gazes sliding over the crazy coot to land on Benjamin. There’s accusation there. _You’ve done this_ , their eyes say. _You’ve done this, Mr. Benjamin, and now you’re to undo it!_

He grunts in annoyance at the lot of them.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” he tries to calm the man. “You’ll bring the orderlies if you don’t shut up. I doubt they’ll be in any hurry to help you do anything but be quiet.”

Spittle gathers at the corners of the man’s mouth, hints of the rabid dog inside that yearns to break out. Feeling at a loss, Benjamin shoves his hand into the inner pocket of his coat.

The Central Ward Melody is completely swallowed by a roar as the man shouts, “THEY TOOK ’EM! THEY TOOK ’EM!”

A nurse appears at the end of the hallway. Even from a distance, Benjamin can see the disapproval carved onto her face.

“Mr. Miller!” the nurse calls loudly. “If you don't stop shouting, we’ll have to put you down for a _nap_.”

Other patients turn away, as if the threat had been aimed at them.

The tranquilizers the hospital staff uses are so strong, you could lose not just hours, but days, and when finally you came around, you’d be sicker than a frog and twice as green.

“Cigarette?” Benjamin asks the man, fishing the cigarette case from his pocket. It’s silver-plated, with a chipped corner, and the letter ‘S’ engraved on the top. If ‘S’ corresponds to his real name, it’s only by coincidence. The case is a hand-me-down from a kind attendant.

When Benjamin arrived at the institution from the public hospital, any belongings he’d possessed, were long since gone—thrown out or stolen. Nothing engraved, certainly no identification, nothing connecting his _now_ to his _before._

The man snarls and snaps at him, the phrase coming hot and fast now.

“Alright then, Mr. Miller, you’ve made your choice.” The nurse clomps off to retrieve an orderly and the medication.

Benjamin reaches out a hand and lays it on the man’s tense shoulder. The man jerks, thrashes, makes to pull away, but Benjamin says in his most authoritative voice, “ _Calm_.”

And suddenly the discordant noise stops. Pure, unadulterated silence follows, for the strains of the Melody have all fallen away.

“Good,” Benjamin says in what might pass for soothing tones. “Good, that’s good. _Calm_. Now, do you want a cigarette?”

The man is perfectly still—not like a jaguar waiting to pounce—but like a man unburdened. He lifts his head, turns his eyes to Benjamin. They’re dark, almost black. Eyes that have seen the worst the world has to offer, and reflect it all for anyone who cares to look.

There’s no reply, but he takes one of the cigarettes he’d rolled earlier in the day and hands it over. The man gives a jerky little nod, a delayed response, and perhaps a hint of gratitude.

One of the benefits of living in the Central Ward, Benjamin is trusted with matches, though he can only carry a few at a time.

“Now...What did they steal? And for that matter, who?”

“The Krauts. My...my legs. Blew 'em clean off.”

Benjamin looks down and Miller follows suit.

“Right there,” he assures him, and for good measure, he knocks Miller’s left leg with the toe of his shoe. “Right there.”

Miller’s reaction is one of unmitigated, unqualified awe. His face is transformed, as the tension ebbs away.

“You... gave me my legs back.”

“No, friend, I only helped you see them.”  
  


****

  
It is time now for _Prescribed Leisure_ , a foolish name for what he’s sure has never before needed scheduling.

It is another attempt by Dr. Akrew to infuse meaning into Benjamin’s cloistered life.

Normalcy.

Purpose.

But Benjamin hates being idle as much as he hates being sociable, and in the end, the only ‘leisure’ activities he’s found enjoyable are swimming, modified calisthenics, and brisk walks around the hospital grounds.

A walk is what he has settled on today.

Being outdoors in the crisp, autumn air, his breath escapes in a cloud and the cold perks him up. For every thing he’s found that he likes, Benjamin can name fifty he does not. But being outdoors agrees with him.

He loves the smell of autumn. The brittle scent of dry leaves and hay, the smell of burning wood carried on cold winds. Pumpkin, cinnamon, and apple spicing the air near the south kitchen. Winter will take these things from him, and he’ll be forced indoors to try and find new pleasures to occupy his time.

He’s wondered what his leisure activities—unprescribed—may have consisted of before the white-blank void, wonders, too, what he would do, were he to leave the hospital. Would he enjoy billiards more in a club, played with men who followed the rules of the game and offered mundane conversation? Somehow, he deems it unlikely.

While being around people provides vague, momentary color and interest, those inevitably give way to annoyance. He finds others to be loud and free with their ignorance, their idle gossip, their self-aggrandisement.

And there’s more.

He feels vaguely unsafe in company.

He’s mistrustful of everyone he meets.

It is not so pervasive that he feels it necessary to hug the walls, to sink into the shadows, like the Paranoids—just enough that he avoids contact when he can. It isn’t even the raving lunatics in the locked ward that frighten him the most. He _should_ be afraid of outright malice. After all, he was broken by malice such as that.

Instead, it’s the apparently normal.

Those who conceal their ill-intent.

Their chaotic hearts.

Their disordered minds.

And so he keeps himself vigilant, as if bred to it.

There’s a single soul who could break his guard with a whisper—and yet, he is naught but a name, a spectre, lingering in Benjamin’s shadow.

A trailing ghost of letters, all C’s and E’s. So many E’s. Three. Is three too many? One R is perfect. It tastes right when he mouths the name.

These thoughts are not normal, Benjamin is all too aware of this fact. And though he has no immediate plans to leave the hospital, he has no wish to broadcast his obsession, either.

Dr. Akrew seemed pleased at their last visit.

“The attendants haven’t heard you saying that name recently,” he had mused, looking through his notes. He glanced up at Benjamin over the top of his round spectacles. “What was it? Clarence?”

Benjamin did not flinch, but it was a close thing.

 _Clarence_ was not _Credence_.

The doctor’s ploy was ham-fisted.

“It’s been so long now, I don’t remember,” Benjamin had responded.

Whether or not he was fooled by Benjamin’s deception, Dr. Akrew had seemed satisfied with the answer.

Benjamin reaches a fork in the path, and continues to the right. Drawing abreast of the North-East corner of the Central Ward, he encounters a stone bench. He brushes leaves off the seat and sits with a relieved sigh, resting his hip for a moment.

In the distance, he can see a group gathering to take the bus into town for a treat. Their own prescribed leisure. He’s only been the once, during the summer. The event? Twenty-five grown men eating Fro-Joy. He’d scowled at the sign advertising “youth-units,” which the ice cream was supposedly “chock-full of.” He’d given his cone to one of his roommates, Conway, who had already wolfed down his own and thanked Benjamin as if he’d just filled the man’s pockets with gold.

He waits, sitting on the bench, until long after they’ve gone. He gazes at the sunset-colored leaves and listens to the creak of drying branches. The crying birds have come out, replacing the singing birds which have all fled south. He hears the wind whistling through the eaves of Admissions Hall and rustling the fallen leaves.

There’s a romance out here in the elements.

Perhaps he could ask to adjust his work detail. Perhaps—

Something sharp stabs him right between the shoulder blades and he leaps up to round on his assailant. It is a redhead, female, quite short, holding a stick. She does not run as he sidesteps the bench, but instead makes to jab him again with her stick. This time he rips it from her hand, snapping it in his fist. Quicker than he’s ever seen anyone move, she pulls another stick out of her sleeve and brandishes it at him, holding it underhand, like a knife.

Her breath comes out hot and fierce through her small nostrils, pluming in the chill air. Her mouth is fixed in a tight line, her cheeks red. But in that moment it is the stick that holds his focus, not the girl.

It is hardly more than a twig, with a half-ripped leaf hanging off the end, but he can’t tear his eyes away.

She attempts once more to stab him and he catches her wrist, thin, but sturdy and twists it, in a quick motion—not with intent to cause her any harm, but to...right the position of her hand. Now she is holding her stick overhand, with her arm bent, and a slight tilt to the right, and she looks from the stick to him, her eyebrows rising.

It still is not complete.

Whatever _this_ is, whatever his broken brain is doing, it is unfinished.

He points a finger at the side of her hand.

“Loosen your grip, just a bit. Yes. Just like that. And you’re holding your wrist too tight.”

When the girl doesn’t move, he raps his knuckles against her wrist.

“Be flexible,” he instructs her. “Arm up. Good.”

He considers all this for a moment and decides, yes, this _is_ good, this is right.

He steps back and wonders if she can see what he sees. It is not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but the girl has a solid stance, it is a beginning. He mumbles to himself, “Swish and fli—“ just as she lunges at him again, an unintelligible battle cry ripping from her throat.

He deftly sidesteps her and grabs the stick, annoyed at them both for acting like fools.

“You can have this back when you’ve learned not to assault people,” he barks at her fleeing form. Then he looks down at the stick, grunts in disgust, and tosses it into a nearby hedge.

 _Prescribed leisure—Mercy Lewis!_ What’s leisurely about this? A man can’t even walk in peace.

He rakes a hand through his hair, realizing with some surprise, that it has grown a bit long. To the barber, then. And he will count it a pleasurable activity, and will report to Dr. Akrew that it was such.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Moar History No One Asked For:** Rocking chairs were a huge part of institutional culture, originally set up in billiards rooms, drawing rooms, and in hallways to encourage patients to talk with one another in comfortable settings. This culture would shift dramatically over the years, with the chairs turned in uniform rows down the hallways so that when you sat in one, you could only see the back of the chair of the person in front of you. Patients were instructed to be quiet and the “good” patients were the ones who didn’t make a sound. This situation only worsened in later decades as whole rooms were set up in this fashion, except the rocking chairs were replaced with immobile plexiglass chairs crammed in close together, and each patient was heavily sedated.
> 
> (Feedback makes the author blush and swoon! Please consider telling me what you think.)


	4. Restless Dreaming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, guys, thank you, thank you, thank you for your kind feedback... It has been marvelously fun to write this story and my heart just about bursts knowing you like it.  
> (T^T) <3

Unremembered dreams sit heavy on Benjamin’s chest. 

It is a challenge to draw breath. He recalls no colors, he recalls no sounds.

_I was dreaming._

He tests the weight of the claim in his mind.

_Yes. True. But of what?_

It seems a lifetime since he last woke, but the moon outside the room’s single window has scarcely moved.

He does this almost every hour, dreaming in shades of black and white and gray, then waking to the sound of the grandfather clock in the main hall tolling the lonely hour. The lingering remnants of his dreams slip away before he can make sense of their shape, and the waking world around him feels unreal.

It sometimes happens when he’s awake, too. A feeling like he’s shifted into sleep only to suddenly wake once more.

He’ll think to take a note while assisting in the mailroom, but get distracted by Mail Clerk Frank. Then he’ll hear the clatter of a falling pencil and when he looks down, he’ll find the note already scrawled on his small pad of paper. Or he’ll wish to be somewhere _—_ perhaps halfway across the hospital grounds _—_ and there’s something like a _crack_ , and he’s no longer walking toward the kitchens, but stumbling headlong into the fountain outside.

Benjamin finds the intrusion of dreams and sleep into his waking hours to be disturbing, unnatural, but he has not discussed it with Dr. Akrew.

The night is for night things, for sleeplessness and dreams and thoughts of Credence.

Credence, who he can't remember.

Credence, who follows him everywhere.

Who owns that name and what is his relationship to Benjamin? What face fits the letters? The broad, arrogant curve of the capital C and the uniform deferential bow of the letters that follow, broken only by the defiance of the D, standing proud and tall amid the rest.

_Credence: Belief. Credibility._

Does Credence, the man, fit the definition, or does he wear his name like ill-fitting shoes, skin rubbed raw by the constricting leather?  

Credence is the only person in the entire world Benjamin seems to give a damn about, and he can’t be sure the man even exists.

Benjamin rolls over to face the wall and closes his eyes again as the muffled echo of the clock’s last toll fades away.

It is two a.m.

****

The window is wide open, letting in vibrant moonbeams and a warm breeze. It smells like the city, like the asphalt releasing all the odors of the day, as well as the faintly sick sweetness of a plant decaying out on the fire escape.

The figure tosses beneath his thin sheet.

And the dreamer watches.

He hears nothing.

Not even the grumbling hum of the city or the swelling white pressure of silence. The night is simply devoid of sound.

He wants to move closer, to stretch out his hand and still the young man’s obvious distress. Instead, he simply watches as the boy thrashes and wrestles with the sheet. When the boy rolls, he comes dangerously near the edge of the too-small bed. Like the pants folded over the back of a nearby chair, he likely outgrew the bed several years ago. One more turn and he’ll fall off, crashing to the wooden floor.

The dreamer could catch him.

The dreamer could _comfort_ him.

But he _shouldn’t_.

He knows it as surely as he knows he is unwelcome in this room.

Even being this close to the boy is dangerous. The dreamer is giving in to urges unspoken—the desire to be close to him. He can not do this in the daylight, can not do this when the young man is awake. And the dreamer draws his line in the sand. This far, no farther. He allows himself to watch, but can’t make his presence known. He can’t intervene.

The young man’s body trembles as he balances, unaware, on the edge of the bed. A moment passes. Then another. And another.

And then he tips over and falls.

The dreamer waits for the noise.

Surely whatever force controls the silence of the night cannot mute the sound of the boy hitting the floor.

A hard thud. The creaking of the aged floorboards. Anything.

Except the boy’s body doesn’t reach the floor.

He floats, his arms folded beneath his head for a pillow, even the nightshirt hanging slack off his body doesn’t reach far enough to touch the boards.

The dreamer is perplexed, has he interceded after all?

And what will be the consequence?

****

The Librarian is nocturnal.

Benjamin discovers her inclinations at half past three.

He’d no longer been able to endure sleep’s cruel playground taunts _—_ the ways it mocked him, casting rocks and then running away. Worse, a little melody, hauntingly soft, had started up in his head _—_ seven notes which repeated in ceaseless refrain. The noise only grew in volume until it drowned out even the sound of his own heartbeat.

And so he’d struggled out of bed, done with restless dreams, done with the quiet racket of his sleeping roommates, done with the shadows shifting like smoke behind his eyes.

And, goddammit, he even took the cane.

For a long while, he walked with aimless purpose, taking the long path to destinations unknown. He’d passed through endless corridors of patient rooms, humming the tune under his breath to block out the muffled sobs he heard coming from behind closed doors.

He considered trying for the main hall, but had been told that the night nurse waits in the shadows, to trap the unwary. The _shadows_ , honestly! He doesn’t put much stock in those stories, but there’s often some hint of truth speckled in rumor, so he avoided the lobby.

Still, he’d longed to go outside, thinking if he walked far enough _—_ with silvery moonlight as his only companion _—_ or if he drained his last reserve of energy... Perhaps then he might have been able to sleep for more than an hour at a time.

Unfortunately, before he even reached the Day Room, he could hear a pair of orderlies, talking and laughing in low tones. One voice high and nasal, the other rough like a saw cutting wood. They came from the south corridor.

Having no desire to be bodily ushered back to a bed where he wouldn’t sleep—and even less interest in the measures they’d take should they decide he was being _uncooperative_ —he’d ducked through a cracked door, slipping soundlessly inside.

For long minutes he listened to the men, who seemed intent on loitering. And only when they finally made their way down another hall, out of earshot, was he able to breathe again.

And then _—now_ —he almost startles right out of his skin when he turns to inspect the room and finds a woman sitting in a warm pool of light cast by a desk lamp. She is staring at him with mild curiosity and even milder reproach. He stares back, heart thundering. He quickly assesses his surroundings.

This is the Library.

She is the Librarian.

And then realizing what a ridiculous figure he must cut, he straightens, grips his cane tightly, and says, “I...have come to take out a book.”

She says nothing in reply, offering neither recrimination nor assistance.

He takes a step toward the darkened stacks, watches her watching him, and then takes another. The moment he’s past her desk, he hears the soft rustle of a page and glances back to find she’s returned to her book, wholly disinterested in the interloper in her library.

So—it’s that easy, then.

He’s visited the Library only once before, and that was at Dr. Akrew’s instruction. He did not take out a book, he found nothing of interest. Also, there was a young woman restocking the shelves that Benjamin found unpleasantly pleasant. Too bright, too bubbly, too eager to assist when he wanted nothing of the sort.

He much prefers this nocturnal Librarian who has nothing at all to say about him skulking about at half past three in the morning.

He does not look for a book.

Instead, he looks for an exit—some way to circumvent the main hall. Another time, perhaps, he would have been content with the quiet and dark of the Library, but tonight he craves the outdoors. He’s feeling choked by the stale air and close-set walls.

He wants to walk. To assure himself the world is larger than this.

It has to be.

It _has_ to be.

Benjamin finds himself at a dead end, pressed in by shelves of books that nearly reach the ceiling. He grunts. Fucking maze of a place.

His cane taps the flooring as he walks, though if it disturbs the Librarian, she says nothing.

And then he hears it. Whispering. It comes from behind him and he turns too sharply, twinging his bad hip. He curses bitterly under his breath. The whispering moves, as sure as if someone swept around him, and he again turns to find no one and nothing but tidy rows of books.

He’s only just reached the end of the shelves when he hears a muffled thump.

Quick as he can manage, he ducks around the end of the line of shelves, looking for the culprit. A book lies open on the floor, its pages splayed grotesquely like the body of a dead bird.

The whispering resumes, this time neither in front of nor behind him, but all around, a single voice, emanating from everywhere at once.

He lifts his chin in defiance, refusing to be cowed by fear.

Not by whispered sounds.

Not by falling books.

Not by any of this foolishness.

Benjamin snatches the book from the ground, and snaps it shut and with that, the whispers fall silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m pretty sure the librarian in me is showing! <3 ((And even though you have to know we librarians don’t actually sit around reading—we’re WAY too busy for that!—I bet most of us wish we could have the Library to ourselves at 3:00 a.m. to read away the early hours...!))
> 
>  **So, obligatory history time** —(today we’re combining my love of mental institutions with my love of library history!) As hospitals moved away from the 1800s model of work-only to a work + leisure model, Libraries became increasingly important. The belief was (and rightly so!) that patients would greatly benefit from access to books as a therapeutic tool, especially given that most were unable to go out and interact with the world at large. The Librarian’s job was to make sure the collection was frequently updated, that the doors of the library were open to all for as many hours as possible (with dedicated staff to assist patrons), and that each ward was visited. The reference interview was a MUST! (Be still my Librarian heart!) This is a way of engaging patrons through attentive and friendly interaction, asking open-ended questions to understand their reading needs, etc. The focus was on treating people like people and not like patients, allowing them to choose their own materials, keep the books as long as they’d like, etc. So cool!
> 
> (Feedback makes the author blush and swoon! Please consider telling me what you think.)


	5. The Spreading of Rumors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! A fresh new chapter, hot off the presses! :) Thank you so much for your continued support. I am awed and humbled by everyone's kind words!

“Mr. Benjamin, thank you for your punctuality.”

How strange to thank someone for a basic courtesy like being on time.

Benjamin is not a man who dawdles, having nothing he finds himself compelled to linger over, but even if he were, he’d scarcely be late to an  _ appointment _ . 

If, at the heart of it, Dr. Akrew is thanking him for arriving at all, that’s even more foolish. In this institution, one attends their visits with the physician, or one faces consequences.

So far, Benjamin has received a number of lectures and stern warnings, most of which related to curfew violations or his general ‘disagreeable attitude.’ Once, he was even assigned  _ more  _ leisure time, which he found punishment enough to warrant going out of his way to be friendly to the attendants.

_ Look, I, too, am sociable.  _

“Mr. Benjamin?”

Of course. The man’s waiting for a response.

“You’re welcome, Doctor,” he grumbles, feeling aggrieved, but doing his best to cover it.

“You’ve been with us almost...” The doctor looks over his paperwork as he does every time they meet, as if he can’t be bothered to remember the specifics of Benjamin’s situation. “Nine months now? No, ten.”

Benjamin likes to think that if he had cases and case files of his own, he would have the professional courtesy to stay current on the details. As crowded as this facility is, though, maybe it’s no surprise the doctor can’t remember each individual crazy. 

“How are things?”

“Fine,” he says, knowing the sparse response won’t be enough to satisfy the man.

“Sleeping?”

“Just fine.”

The look on Dr. Akrew’s face doesn’t change. “Where are you right now?”

“Your office,” Benjamin answers dryly, making a show of looking around.

The windows are curtained, muting the light from the outside. The lights hanging from the ceiling are weak and strained, as if they—like the doctor—have far too much work and too little time in which to get it all done.

Shelves stand proud and tall, flanking the desk. Every inch of available space is tightly packed full of books.

Stacks of files sit neatly on the edge of a desk too large for one man. It is a kingdom, and Dr. Akrew, the king. The files are his subjects, Benjamin and all the others who will come for their fifteen minute audiences with the physician.

“Where are you  _ in your head _ , Mr. Benjamin?”

“Ah, well.” This he hates, the inevitable questions about what he thinks and what he feels.

The consequences of not answering would be worse, even more so if he were to become belligerent.

He’s seen what happens to the people who rave, the ones who try to escape. He’s seen what happens to those who do not follow instructions. Benjamin will do whatever he can to avoid those fates. He thinks he’d try to gnaw through his wrists if they restrained him, and he’d rather not risk it.

All Dr. Akrew is asking of him is an update.

He might as well ask Benjamin to make the desk float.

“I’m… fine.” He has nothing more for the man. No profound revelations.

Dr. Akrew thumbs through a few more papers, his silence long and pronounced. He replaces the documents in the file and sets it aside. When he looks up, it’s with the weight of judgement in his eyes.

“We should discuss what happened today.”

No. Benjamin thinks not.

It happened.

It’s over.

This is the way of most things in Benjamin’s life.

They happen; then they are over.

“During the show?” Dr. Akrew prompts, as if Benjamin doesn’t know the precise instance he’s talking about.

“There was a bit of a disagreement,” Benjamin says tightly. “I apologized for the disturbance.”

“‘A bit of a disagreement,’” Dr. Akrew repeats with frustrating emphasis. He adjusts his glasses. “Voices were raised. There was shoving. The attendants had to halt the picture show, didn’t they?”

“It sounds like you already know the story.”

“Moreover, three orderlies were involved. It took that much effort to pull you two apart.”

“They were there to hold back the simpleton, not me.”

Benjamin does not like Dr. Akrew’s eyes on him. They are too bright. Too intense. They make him feel undressed, exposed, on display.

He does  _ not _ like to be watched.

_ He _ is a watcher.

“And I did my time in hydrotherapy,” he finally says. “I’ll be better in the future, that was a punishment I do not wish to repeat.”

“Hydrotherapy is not meant as punishment, Mr. Benjamin. It’s designed to settle the nerves.”

Well, it makes  _ his _ nerves clang together like rusted pot lids. Those soggy blankets, near freezing, placed over him, weighing him down, pressing on his lungs. 

It was only later, when the cloth seemed to grow warm, that he felt himself ease at all.

“What was it, Mr. Benjamin, that Square Jon said that riled you so?”

_ Mr. Benj’min, I know your secret. _

Benjamin huffs a laugh. That’s the truly absurd part. It was nothing. 

No jab of the elbow.

No childish taunt.

Just...an annoyance. And yet…

The seconds tick long and Dr. Akrew waits as if he has all the time in the world and not a line of other patients outside the door. When he speaks, it’s a great relief.

“You’re quite popular here, Mr. Benjamin.”

“That can’t possibly be true,” he mutters.

“But, it is. The attendants like you, and I’ve heard good things about you from a number of our patients.”

“Alright,” Benjamin agrees, not at all believing what he hears, but knowing better than to contradict the doctor.

“I truly think—”

_ Here it is _ .

“—today was something out of the ordinary for your character.”

“I don’t usually go around taking swings at my fellow man, no,” he agrees. 

Nor speak to, if he can avoid it. And even when he does it’s rarely more than a grunt. He suspects he was not what most would consider ‘pleasant’ in his past life.

“I understand Jon’s condition can be troubling. He is usually a gentle soul, but he has strange ideas, and he can be as tenacious as a dog with a bone. Would you say that was the trouble? That he’s formed a strange  _ idea  _ about you, Mr. Benjamin?”

Benjamin huffs.

If the doctor already knows, why does he insist on pulling the details from Benjamin like rotten teeth?

“Do you want to tell me what he said to you during the film?”

_ Let’s get out of here, Mr. Benj’min. Can you use your magic and get us out of here? _

“It was nonsense. Honestly.” He pushes to his feet, feeling the need to pace. “Drivel.” The word is nearly a shout.

“Please, Mr. Benjamin. Sit.” 

He collapses back into the chair, folding like a slashed bellows.  “I didn’t even want to be there, Doctor.”

“It was your choice.”

“Was it?” he demands. “I was under the impression that nothing here is my choice. Not when to sleep, when to eat, the work I do, even my leisure is ‘prescribed.’ I was told to watch the picture, so I watched the picture. Or, I would have, if that oaf hadn’t…”

_ I know you can. Know you can do  _ magic _. Saw you pull that stool to ya in the kitchen! _

“What did he say?”

“It doesn’t  _ matter _ .”

“If it doesn’t matter, then you should have no trouble repeating it, Mr. Benjamin.”

This pressure won’t let up. It will never let up. As long as he’s in this chair, in this room, with Dr. Akrew’s scrutinizing gaze on him, he will ever be at the mercy of these questions.

Well, if he must...

Frustrated, Benjamin’s voice comes out tight. “He believes me capable of  _ magic _ .”

“Magic?” Dr. Akrew slowly raises an eyebrow. “Sleight of hand?”

“Oh, if only. I would take my show on the road. No, haven’t you heard? Rumors say I’m able to appear and disappear, move objects at a distance…”

The preposterousness of it as it all leaves his lips… Benjamin cannot hold back the bark of laughter.

It is a bullet from a gun.

“ _ Magic! _ ” His laughter ricochets around the room. “And to think, I had to learn about it from Square Jon.”

“Your laughter rings false. This really troubles you, doesn’t it? Why? It’s such an innocuous claim.”

“ _ Hardly _ ,” Benjamin argues, no longer in control of his tongue. “It is absurd.  _ Ridiculous _ . If I ever had magic, then it  _ failed _ me quite gravely, Doctor.”

He glares at the physician, daring him to say something—anything!

“All I want,” he continues bitterly, “is to be left alone. If I’m supposed to watch a film, then let me watch said film. If I am supposed to chop carrots, then let me butcher the damn things. Do not sit there and hiss at me like a buffoon about  _ witchcraft.” _

Benjamin lets out another dry laugh, more a cough than anything.

“ _ Mercy Lewis!” _

Dr. Akrew’s expression has not changed. He seems unaffected by Benjamin’s charged words. “Who is that?”

“What?”

“The name you just said, ‘Mercy Lewis.’ Who is she?”

Benjamin waves him off. “Simply an exclamation I made up. The staff generally frowns on cursing, and I assumed you’d rather I say that than ‘fucking hell.’”

Dr. Akrew studies him for a moment, seeming to consider something. “I’d rather you say whatever comes to mind.”

“Alright then,” Benjamin says, a touch hotly. “ _ Fucking hell _ , doctor. I am a private man, a solitary man, and I have no wish to interact with the others at the best of times. That I should have to also  _ defend myself  _ against accusations of  _ witchcraft…  _ Of all the absurd—!” He really is in the nuthouse, to be forced to say these things out loud. “If Square Jon is going to get up in arms about magical farce, wait until he hears the nonsense they preach at Sunday Services.”

“You’re not a Christian, then?”

“I am _ nothing _ ,” he says tightly, and feels the truth of the declaration keenly. 

He  _ is _ nothing. 

He is a borrowed name. 

He is enforced leisure. 

He is keeper of the C’s and the E’s. 

If he were gone, no one would notice nor would they care.

“You said, were it real, that magic has failed you.”

If he hadn’t grown to know Dr. Akrew somewhat, he would think the man was joking. Instead, his tired face, heavy with the lines of age and all he has seen in this institution, remains quite serious.

“Let’s review: Some person—or persons—beat me within an inch of my life, leaving me half-crippled and without so much as a hint of memory. If I’d had  _ powers _ , wouldn’t I have stopped that from happening?”

“So you  _ do  _ have strong feelings about the attack.”

“When have I said otherwise?”

“That’s the thing, Mr. Benjamin. You’ve never said  _ anything _ about the attack. You deflect, you dance around the issue. But someone caused you  _ grave harm.  _ They took something precious from you. What does that make you feel?”

Benjamin locks down the feelings, stuffs them away. A body in a closet, hidden out of sight. But the smell still carries, doesn’t it?

“I...feel nothing.”

Dr. Akrew frowns deeply. “You’re doing so well, Mr. Benjamin, skating so very close to some fundamental truth. A fellow patient made a fantastical accusation about you. Something so grossly ridiculous that a man of your intellect could surely laugh it off. And yet, it still makes you seethe. I posit your reaction has far more to do with your feelings of helplessness, than offense at the claim.”

Benjamin refuses to speak, refuses to participate in this farce any longer.

“We still don’t understand entirely what, if anything, might bring your memories back. The injuries you sustained were quite severe, it’s a miracle you survived, sir. Tell me, do you have any recollection of the day in question?”

Not the day in question, nor the week in question, not even the month. He has his time here at the asylum. He has the  _ name _ that lives inside of him. He has his walks around the grounds.

“Does nothing trigger thoughts or feelings of the past? Even a hint of something familiar? Perhaps it’s a smell or sound. Even a dream might be a clue.”

A dream?

Benjamin doesn’t remember his dreams. He is an amnesiac in the waking world as well as in sleep.

“No.”

Dr. Akrew taps two fingers against the file. “Did you know that by clinical standards, you are categorized ‘Not Insane?’”

“Well, that is certainly promising. I’d hate to be both a practitioner of witchcraft  _ and _ insane.”

“There’s that deflecting humor again,” he says. “But that is the thing, Mr. Benjamin, it truly  _ is  _ promising. I have hope that—unlike most others—you will be able to leave this place someday.”

Benjamin suddenly does not know what he feels about that. He does not  _ like _ it here, but where would he go? He has no appreciable skills. Certainly he would not find work chopping vegetables. 

He has the clothes on his back, the cane, and a book he’s borrowed from the library. It is a small beginning for a new life, but wouldn’t even a small life be better than this?

“I… Okay.”

 

****

  
Tonight, he dreams with sound.

The effect is deafening, the lonely car passing by outside, the echoing creak of floorboards, the thunderous whimpers of the boy as he tosses and turns.

It makes up a full tone-deaf orchestra of noise.

The dreamer flinches, pulls away, deeper into the corner, deeper into the shadows. Perhaps there he may find some measure of relief.

But still his eyes are trained on the boy who kicks off his covers to reveal a nightshirt grown too short for his legs. His movements are more frantic, the sounds he’s making, louder.

Without warning, he sits straight up in bed, gasping in great lungfuls of air.

The dreamer watches. He is so near. But so endlessly far away.

And then the boy, dark-haired, dark-eyed, slowly turns his head.

He opens his mouth.

All the sound in the room ceases.

There’s nothing left.

The dreamer fears the boy will speak and he’ll be deaf to the words.

Oh how he longs to know what the boy will say.

Needs it.

If he may only ever hear one sound again, let it be this young man's voice.

Let it beat a tattoo on the drums of the dreamer’s ear.

As quickly as it had stopped, the sound comes rushing back into the room, as if summoned by his heartfelt desire. It is louder than ever, the shattering roar of a mouse on the first floor, the waterfall cascading from a leaky faucet in the bathroom sink, the storm of snoring from all around.

And the boy—his voice dark as the pitch that clouds his eyes—says:  
  
“I finally  _ found _ you, Mr. Graves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **History, History, History:** Technically, Graves’ diagnosis is “Not Insane, Subtype: Other” where the person doing the intake paperwork would have written ‘amnesia.’ *whispers* _I read historical patient intake manuals for fun. <3 _
> 
> So, today let’s talk about treatments! Are you wondering why there’s been no mention of shock therapy (ECT), insulin-therapy, lobotomy, etc. in this story? That’s because those therapies didn’t come into common practice until the 1930s and onwards. One treatment that was prevalent at the time was malaria fever therapy which was designed to treat syphilis and its neurological symptoms. (Effective! Assuming you survived the malaria.) What did exist, and was commonly prescribed, was hydrotherapy. “The Water Cure” can be a bit confusing as a concept, because it’s an umbrella term for a number of various water-related procedures, rather than one specific therapy. In this case, Hydrotherapy could involve being sprayed with jets of water from a hose, forced into vats of icy water, laid out on a table and covered in soaked blankets and towels, or simply left for hours on end in a room-temperature tub of water. The treatments were as unique and varied as the hospitals themselves, and the prevailing thought at the time was that this was a very humane and versatile course of treatment. But that’s the difference between theory and practice. Physicians came to find that while it may have helped some, many patients were resistant to hydrotherapy, and the practice would eventually fall out of favor as a treatment.

**Author's Note:**

> (Feedback makes the author blush and swoon! Please consider telling me what you think.)


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